


for the turnstiles

by earl_grey93



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, i love two sad sassy boys, tom is having a hard time but good thing he has a jock boyfriend to cheer him up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earl_grey93/pseuds/earl_grey93
Summary: Thomas Hartnell comes to Terror.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 31





	for the turnstiles

**Author's Note:**

> tom and solly stand next to each other like three times in this show which is canon enough for me. thank you @vegetas for planting these cold boys in my brain. not beta’d because i’m hungry and want to live. i haven’t published fic in 8 years and i have no idea what i'm doing, please be kind,,

> ORESTES: Oh, girl. How I pity the dark life you live. 
> 
> ELEKTRA: No one else has ever pitied me, you know.
> 
> ORESTES: No one else has ever been part of your grief.

An omen. That’s what they call him, when he sets foot aboard Her Majesty’s Ship _The Terror._ It’s fitting that he walk over from _Erebus,_ as the darkness preceding disaster. The men huddle in groups of threes and fours and cast glances over him as he hauls himself up the ladder. But it’s not his name that leaks out through the sides of their mouths, to be whipped away by the wind. A slight, dark-haired boy murmurs something to the man beside him. The man raises his eyebrows and chews on his bottom lip, coiling long pieces of rope in practiced rings. 

Tom swallows, hard. Missing the easy comfortability of _Erebus_ , which doesn’t exist anymore. Missing his brother, who doesn’t exist anymore. He meets the boy’s gaze and fixes him with a steady green stare, thinking about lamp lights and walls that close in and Harry Goodsir’s guilty, dismayed face. 

One deck is the same as another. Tom has been standing on them since he was fifteen years old, and muscle memory pushes him past the moment of uncertainty. He pulls his wig down a little further over his reddening ears and hauls his bag up on his shoulder. Lieutenant Hodgson is already on board, speaking to another officer that Tom recognizes as Captain Crozier’s right-hand man, Edward Little; who looks over Hodgon’s shoulder mid-sentence at Tom and quirks a wooly eyebrow. Tom doesn’t keen an ear to listen, but roves over the ship he’s now to call home. The sails are down for winter, and men move like eels across the crisp surface, lifting the flaps to release the sound of laughter and the warmth of lanterns. 

“Mr. Hartnell,” Hodgson says, alighting him with bergy eyes, and Tom looks back at his new lieutenant. 

“Yes, sir?” he replies, straightening. A frigid wind rips through them both, and Tom can tell Hodgson is thinking about escaping to his cabin; he vaguely remembers hearing that the lieutenant had served most of his time in Asia, and wonders what had brought him to seek out such inhospitable waters. 

“Take your things below and get yourself warmed up for a spell and then go find John Lane, he’ll get you sorted out,” Hodgson says, rubbing his hands together. “You’ll be taking the morning watch first, I believe, so get some supper and make yourself at home.” 

Tom thinks to himself that he won’t find a home in this icy expanse again, but then _Terror_ is not so different as _Erebus_. They are both feeling the same absence. He gives Hodgson a weary salute and walks away to the ladder. Peering down into the belly of the beast, he feels a bit like Orpheus crawling into the underworld as he slowly descends.

He feels the claustrophobia of his surroundings immediately, the dim lights, the heavy and expectant stares like a palpable heat and he yearns to flee back to the upper deck, to heave gulps of freezing air into his lungs. Coming here was a mistake, Tom thinks. He’s spent eight years below decks, so this thought is ridiculous. One month ago, he was staring at John’s body on a slab. The air here has the same smell of oil he left behind on _Erebus._ It’s hard to draw breath into his lungs. He lifts the hatch to his new chest and plunks his bag into it, trying not to think about it’s previous owners, touching the “JT” carved into the wood.

“That was John Torrington’s,” someone says, and Tom turns to size up the brunette man walking up behind him. He’s flanked by two other ABs. He recognizes two of them as the ones who eyed him up earlier. Tom feels a pang of tension and lets the lid close with a clatter. 

“A dead man’s chest for a dead man’s brother,” the first man, David Leys, says, putting one foot up onto the aforementioned chest, forcing Tom to take a step back. He nearly trips over backwards, his knee banging into the wood, but steadies after a moment and braces himself. 

“Nervous thing,” the third man mutters, to which Tom promptly jerks his chin up, his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth. He bolsters his shoulders, knowing the other man is twice as wide and with a more callous stare. 

“What’s the matter? Wasn’t enough misery back there?” Leys asks, and it’s almost enough to take Tom’s breath away, but it makes his fists ball up instead.

“Fuck off,” he spits back, cheeks immediately flushing, arms rushing out and shoving into Leys’ chest. The man tumbles back into the other AB behind him, while the third quickly latches onto the front of Tom’s shirt and ricochets him into the wall. Tom can sense a stillness descend on the deck as men stop whatever they’re doing and stare, some slowly rising to their feet from tables or deciding where to insert themselves. One of the men looks down the passageway and Tom braces himself for an officer’s bark. 

“ _Erebus_ is suffering more than _Terror_. We don’t need that misfortune brought aboard here. We’ve suffered enough as it,” the man holding him hisses, and Tom stifles a laugh. 

“Alright, you lot, shove off,” suddenly a broad-shouldered man in a red coat--Tom belatedly thinks, _marine--_ steps between them. He isn’t armed but the men still shy away like he’s slung a rifle around. The man gripping his shirt instantly releases him and steps back. Tom feels a stab of irritation; he doesn’t need someone handling his affairs for him. Like the times John would black the faces of the boys at the dock who pushed him around.

Leys clucks between his teeth, clearly also aggravated and not enjoying having his fun ruined. The marine gives him a long look down his nose, mouth twisted unpleasantly and brow quirked, daring. Tom figures the other sailors aren’t that stupid, or at least he’s small fry enough not to bother with, but the man who had grabbed him, Johnson, straightens like he’s really spoiling for a fight. 

“Come on, don’t be stupid,” the third man whines. “Forget about him.” 

“Careful,” the marine murmurs, eyes lighting up. He smiles crookedly. The tension crests in the men watching. Leys swallows, losing his nerve. He doesn’t even give Tom a final glare before he jerks one eighty, just stalks away to a half empty table with his men following sullenly behind him.

“Too bad,” the marine says, turning on one foot. He’s smirking, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Would have been a good bit of sport.” Tom raises one eyebrow, nervous and still a little frustrated by the interference, so he doesn’t say anything back. The marine shrugs. It’s his turn to give Tom a once-over, but he just sticks out one hand. 

He almost wants to ask Leys to come back, because he could deal with that a lot more easily than this right now. Feeling overwhelmed by the sea of unknown faces drifting in the background and limbs that are still thawing from the boat over, Tom ignores the offer. The man’s expression doesn’t change from an amiable smile but he drops his hand. Clearly, Tom wants him to go and saunter back to his marine friends. Resolutely, the marine just stands there. 

“How old are you?” he asks, unexpectedly. 

“I’m twenty three. Twenty four in March,” Tom replies, and swings his gaze around to the sergeant. The line between his brows deepens. “Why? How old are you?”

The marine snorts, rearing his head back, teeth peaking out from behind his mustache. “I was your age when I enlisted,” he says easily, leaning back, unfolding his arms. He’s got an accent that speaks of a field rather than a port, and Tom wonders how he made it to the middle of the polar region. 

“Good for you,” Tom says. The marine’s face is open, friendly even, but there’s a glint to his eyes that betrays him for a more calculating mind than he perhaps lets on. He’s good looking and tall, with a straight, square nose and hair that catches shades of red and gold in the lanterns. The girls back home must fawn and trip over themselves in gaggles, to get at that gleaming smile. Tom notes where the bridge of his nose waves a little, and the power across his shoulders, and tucks away a warning. 

“Don’t pay them much mind,” the marine says finally.

“I don’t plan to.”

“I will tell you that you won’t make fast friends with that tongue.”

Tom touches his cuff, rubbing the “J.H.” stitched into the fabric with his mother’s steady fingers. He imagines the look on her face, the consternation knitted between her brows, the displeased humming and head shaking that she would unleash on him if she were here now. 

“I’m Tom Hartnell,” he says, turning and extending a hand. The marine nods and leans forward, giving him a firm shake.

“So I heard. Solomon Tozer, Sergeant.” 

“I didn’t know marines were in the habit of introducing themselves to seamen, Sergeant Tozer,” Tom says and Tozer grins at him again. Unsure of what to do with his body, Tom opts for standing awkwardly at half-attention.

“It’s my job to make a good impression,” he cajoles. Tom feels himself vaguely lulled by the easy and confident manner with which the sergeant speaks; which, he supposes, is the point. “Besides, you seemed a little lost.”

An understatement, as they’re literally heading towards uncharted waters. He can’t begin to explain to Tozer how lost he feels, currently. Fully unmoored from earth and now, painfully, explicitly, from heaven. He makes a small noise, and opens his chest again for want of something to do with his hands, digging for nothing in his sack. If Tozer notices his obvious discomfort, he doesn’t remark on it. 

“It’s too bad leaving Sir John, but we’re not so bad as all that over here,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Lt. Irving is a bit of a lobcock to be honest, and good luck getting Hodgson to ever shut up, careful you don’t catch him in a story telling mood, which is always by the way,” Tozer grins mischievously, following Tom’s fervent eyes as they flick across the deck for the familiar wild blonde hair. “But there’s good lads here.” 

“Oh, well, thank you for the advice, Sergeant,” Tom smiles, startled. Tozer has surprised him with a jolt of good humor and he laughs, which Tozer seems delighted by. The air lightens, a little bit.

Tozer flops onto the adjacent chest, crossing his long legs in front of him. Tom’s stomach flutters; thin and mouthy and second fiddle to a more outgoing brother growing up, he was unaccustomed to the attentions of older, bigger boys then. Several years on ships, packed into tight quarters with rowdy men, has lessened the feeling somewhat. Tozer’s rank and perfectly tousled red hair amplify his skittishness. 

“Needed a change of pace then? Cooking’s better here, I’ve heard,” Tozer smirks.

“Yeah, a mate told me _Terror’s_ cans are slightly less of a dreg than _Erebus’,_ so I hopped right over,” Tom replies, and Tozer snickers. 

They settle easily into a back and forth repertoire of retorts. Tom relaxes a little, the tension that usually holds his brows in a tight crease smoothing out. The rumble of conversations going on around them and the flash of Solomon’s teeth are soothing, rather than intimidating. Tom’s hair is still damp with sweat and defrosting ice; he runs his hand through it, pushing it back and away. Tozer follows the movement, eyes flicking up and down. 

“Nobody blames you, you know,” Solomon says, his expression more pensive. Tom cocks an eyebrow, biting his lip. 

“For being sick of Mr. Wall’s biscuits?” he asks, smiling. But he knows what Tozer is hinting at. The air drops a few degrees, it seems; but the space between them is still warm and Tom hesitates to retreat. 

“It must have been hard over there,” Tozer says. He’s got his head tilted a little ways, trying to catch Tom’s eye. “Having that hang around you every time you wake up and put your feet on the deck.”

“No, that’s not--” Tom bites back, grimacing. He shakes his head, closing his eyes. Grief is not a mystery special to his circumstances, he knows; other men have experienced far greater grief than he. But out here? At the end of all things, in this world of their very own making? He feels like the only man who has ever experienced loss.

“His ghost was with me the whole time. I can still see people looking at it, over my shoulder,” Tom says, slowly. The words just seem to fall out of his mouth. _A fresh start_ . He knew deep down, coming to _Terror_ , that he would be followed by that haunting. You can only go so far amongst a hundred and twenty seven men. 

“But it’s like, if I came here, John would still be back on _Erebus._ Like I wouldn’t know any different, and he’d just be over there waiting for me to get back.” Tom feels all the air leave his lungs when he says it, finally, the thought that’s been pressing on the back of his neck like a firm hand, squeezing until his muscles scream. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. To anyone, let alone to Her Majesty’s royal lobster. Shame flushes Tom’s cheeks, cascading down his back and prickling his hair. He clenches his jaw, then laughs bitterly, looking carefully away from the sergeant. 

Shaking his head, Tom starts to turn away. He should report back to Lane. Or go and find Hodgson and tell him this was an idiotic mistake, and turn him out at the nearest iceberg, please. A sudden, firm grip on his elbow keeps him from moving away. Tom looks back up, surprised. Tozer is looking at him with a pained expression, and the open pity is enough to send Tom wheeling, yanking away from the man’s hand. 

“I’ve lost two brothers,” Solomon says, and Tom feels nauseous; the wall of darkness he’s been keeping at bay since January eeks out through the barriers he’s carefully constructed, lapping at his throat and the backs of his eyes. “One god-given, an older brother, when I was eleven. He fell off a horse, hit his head. My mother--well--” he shakes his head and doesn’t go on. 

“I don’t know if my mother knows yet,” Tom says, and strangely, paradoxically, a smile lurches onto his face. It feels so absurd; it’s all he’s thought about since, and his mother and sister might not even know. They still think John is going to write to them in six months from the Sandwich Islands, announcing that Victoria herself was on the way down to the docks now, to grant Sarah and Mary medals of honor in their absence. “Who was the other?”

“Oh, a marine who enlisted with me back when. Albert Randall. He was a good man.”

“How did he die?”

“Consumption.” 

Tom winces and feels his stomach drop away, all the way through the ship, plunging into the frigid sea, seizing his body. His eyes flutter nervously and his mouth twists sideways. 

“It’s horrible, watching a man go that way. Randall was a big big man, had a laugh that could clear the room, like a fucking lion roaring at you, did you ever see one of those? Always the lad you wanted behind you when things got tough. Always the one at your back.” Solomon looks pensive, solemn. He crosses his arms again. Tom glances at the swelling of red fabric and buttons across his chest when he does. “He looked more like a cabin boy when it was done with him.”

Tozer looks at him pointedly, catching his apprehensive gaze and refusing to let go. Tom looks back at him furtively, feeling like a gull caught in a gillnet. 

“It’s not fair,” Solomon says, and Tom flinches like Tozer slapped him, blinking rapidly. He opens his mouth to say something back, but he can’t draw in the air to make a sentence. He blinks again, making a muted, formless sound. The smell of men and coal and salt is overwhelming. He nods, feeling physically transported away from the ship, and he sways hard enough that he has to sit down on a chest. Tozer moves to stand in front of him, putting a hand out on the expanse of space where his shoulder and neck met. 

“It’s not fair,” he says again, quieter. 

“I know,” Tom whispers, chewing the words out. Looking down, as close as they are, all he can see are Tozer’s neatly formed waist and thighs, clad in navy issue wool. He reaches out because he can’t help it, catching onto the lapel of Tozer’s scarlet overcoat, bunching the stiff fabric under a trembling hand. The kindness, after so many weeks of ice gnawing at his gut, lands almost as tenderly as a kiss. Tom nearly shivers with it. 

Tozer’s eyes are hazel, like John’s. 

“I’ll see you on watch, Mr. Hartnell. And remember what I said about minding your tongue,” Tozer says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

“Piss off, Sergeant,” Tom replies, and the sharp, surprised clap of the marine’s laughter as he jaunts away sends a spark of warmth down to his stomach. He huffs, catching himself in a smile. 


End file.
